


Hold the Pickle

by imafriendlydalek



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Jack is divorced and has a 5-year-old daughter, Kid Fic, Light Angst, M/M, Mostly Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 04:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13516491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imafriendlydalek/pseuds/imafriendlydalek
Summary: Jack's trying to do his best in dealing with the divorce, shared custody and a knee that isn't going to last forever.One day, his daughter drags him into the cafe down the street, and Jack keeps going back ...





	Hold the Pickle

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to orbingarrow for cheerleading/listening to me whine about stupid fictional hockey players!  
> (and of course many thanks to Ngozi for giving us these beautiful stupid fictional hockey players!)
> 
> Jack is doing the "trying to raise a bilingual child in a country that speaks another language" thing. Like most kids, she tends to answer in the community language, i.e. English. My French isn't what it used to be, so I've used guillemets (« these guys ») to show when French is spoken and obvs "these guys" for English.
> 
> Jack does not like pickles.

Like so many things in Jack’s life (at least in the last five years): It was because of Gabrielle.

It was a Wednesday, which meant they were on their way home from swim class. It was their Thing, whenever Jack could, but three weeks had passed since the last time - he’d been out on a roadie last week, and there had been a mandatory team event the week before that. It was his favorite day of the week, and he hated missing seeing his daughter achieve new milestones. They got so little time together these days as it was. Gabrielle had been practically buzzing with excitement when he’d picked her up from school to take her to swimming - “I can do the jumping now!” she’d announced. By which she meant she wasn’t afraid to jump off the edge of the pool into the water anymore.

«That’s excellent, ma chérie!» He just managed to catch the backpack she shoved at him to carry before she took off running. «Hey, wait up!»

“Faster, old man!” she replied with a giggle. 

Jack winced at the way his knee throbbed as he followed after her, gritting his teeth through the pain. _Crisse,_ the season had barely just begun. His physical therapist had ordered him to take it easy for a few days or face sitting out the next game. Both prospects made him want to tear his hair out. At thirty-one, he wasn’t bouncing back from injury as quickly anymore as he had in the early years of his career. 

Jack sighed. A lot of things had been easier then.

His daughter wasn’t as energetic anymore after swimming, and Jack was grateful for it as they walked the few blocks home from the pool.

“... and Sierra says she’s going to have a pool party for her birthday, and we’re all gonna be invited!”

«That’s great, chérie,» Jack replied, half listening to his daughter prattling on and half worrying about whether his knee would last the season.

Gabrielle tugged at his sleeve. “Papa, can we go there?”

«Where’s that, baby?» He followed the direction of her finger, pointing across the street to a little storefront. The Itty Bitty Cafe, the sign read - a fitting name for a small place like that. It had opened a few months ago, and Jack had been meaning to stop in and try it (something about the bright swirls of color in the sign called to him).

«I’m hungry, Papa!»

Jack had been planning to make chicken tenders for them for dinner, but suddenly he didn’t feel like cooking. 

«Sure, baby. You were very brave today, jumping off the edge of the pool. I think that deserves a little treat.» He tucked his arm around his daughter and led her across the street, making a show of checking the traffic from both directions before crossing.

The bell above the door dinged as Jack pushed it open. He took a deep breath - it smelled of freshly baked bread. Some sort of singer-songwriter music was playing, and the walls were lined with huge paintings. The cafe was empty except for a young woman working on a laptop at the ledge by the window and the guy behind the counter.

“Hi there!” the guy greeted them as they made their way up to the counter. He obviously wasn’t from Providence, judging by the southern twang in how he spoke, and he beamed at Jack and Gabrielle with a radiance that made Jack want to sit down and stay a while. “What can I get for ya?”

“Euh, hi. We, uh, we may need a moment to decide.” Jack glanced up at the menu written in chalk on the wall behind the counter, large swirling letters describing wraps and burgers as well as salads and other options.

“Sure thing, let me know when you’re ready. If it helps, the roasted veggie wrap is really popular, and kids love our smoothies. Oh, and I’ve got some apple pie that I just pulled out of the oven about ten minutes ago.”

“Papa, can I have this one?” Gabrielle pointed towards one of the pre-made wraps in the display case. «And a cupcake? Please?»

«Yeah, sure,» Jack told Gabrielle. «They look really good, ouais?»

Gabrielle nodded enthusiastically.

“One of those wraps and a chocolate peanut butter cupcake for my daughter.” He looked up as he turned his attention to the guy behind the counter, their eyes meeting for the first time. Wow, his eyes were almost the size of saucers. Jack felt himself smile. “And I’ll have the roasted veggie wrap. And a mango pineapple smoothie. Oh, no pickle, please, if, uh, if it usually comes with pickles.”

“In the smoothie? No, not usually,” the guy replied with a wink. 

Next to Jack, Gabrielle giggled and rumpled her nose. “Ewwwwwww, pickle smoothie.” She was beaming as if it was the funniest thing she’d heard all year.

Jack let out a quiet laugh at the thought. “Good. That would be terrible.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the guy said as he started pulling ingredients out of the display case. “I bet some of my pregnant customers might like it. Maybe I should add it to the menu…”

“Well, it’s a good thing for me I probably don’t have to worry about getting that sort of craving. Hold the pickle for me, please.”

Jack winced inwardly at what he’d just said. One would think he’d be better at this, by now - talking to strangers - seeing as how he had to do it _all the time_ because of who he was. And usually he could make it through ordering lunch without making an ass of himself. But for some reason …

The guy looked like he was struggling to hide a smile, which put Jack at ease a bit. “You got it. Sorry,” he added with a half-smile, “I really I shouldn’t be one to chirp people for the way they talk, but gosh, the way you say ‘aboot’ … warms my heart. Canadian, eh?”

“Canadian,” Jack replied. Smiling, he added, “Eh.”

It was what everyone said when they found out he was Canadian. Every. Time. Usually it bugged him, in that way that every joke stops being funny when you’ve heard it a thousand times, in the way that he also couldn’t stand being told how much he was like his father. Maybe it was this guy’s own endearing accent, the amusing way he tried to bend his twang around the “eh” that kind of made him sound more like a pirate than a Canadian, but Jack found he really didn’t mind it today.

Jack took a moment to watch the guy behind the counter as he prepared their food. He was short and lean, and he looked young, maybe early twenties. His blond hair curled forward as he moved about, bopping to the music. 

Jack turned to look around the cafe, taking in the row of tables, the group of mismatching overstuffed couches in the back corner. There was a shelf full of books, which Gabrielle had already bounced off to browse through. Jack’s gaze swept across the paintings - bright colors and abstracted figures, their long limbs in motion - before settling on the one on the far left. Against a mottled blue-and-black background, a faceless nude figure stretched out across the canvas, weight on one leg, the other stretched out behind him. In the figure’s arms, something that looked like a - Jack stepped closer. A tag next to the painting simply read L. DUAN - SHITTY SMH 2014. $250

“Y’all can take a seat if you want,” the guy called over, pulling Jack out of his thoughts. “I can bring this on over once it’s ready.”

Jack straightened and turned back to the counter. “This painting, is it …” Jack let the sentence trail off, not sure what he was asking.

“Oh, you like it?” the guy replied, his voice light. His back was to Jack - he was probably still preparing the wrap. “My friend Lardo did it. All of the paintings in here, actually.”

“I do. Like it, I mean.”

The guy turned around and took off his gloves. He picked up the plates with Jack and Gabrielle’s order and made his way around the counter, then set the plates down on the coffee table in front of the couch Gabrielle had nestled on before looking up at Jack.

“She’s got a show over at Waterside Gallery too, if you’re interested.”

Jack shrugged. He wasn’t really one for art. “I like this one.”

The guy glanced up at the painting and smiled. “It’s my favorite, too.”

They both turned to look at the painting, and a moment passed. And another, and Jack was sure he should say something but couldn’t muster _what_ he should say. And then another moment passed and it was just getting embarrassing.

“Well, enjoy your wrap,” the guy finally said before turning to head back behind the counter.

“Thanks,” Jack managed to get out and went to join his daughter on the couch. 

A group of college students came into the cafe just as he sat down, and Jack was glad for the noise they brought with them. He was even gladder that none of them seemed to recognize him. It was nice to just hang out somewhere with Gabrielle without people lingering behind him, pushing in on their time together. 

He got so little time with her these days, after all.

***

Two weeks went by before Jack went back to the cafe. He’d stayed away purposely the first few days, still a bit embarrassed at his own awkwardness with the pickle thing. Then he’d finally been cleared by the team doctors and had thrown himself back into his training regiment, which hardly left room for the tantalizing snacks that The Itty Bitty Cafe offered. 

Jack had just come home from a six-day roadie, though, and it was late and he was _exhausted_ and starving. They’d lost the last two games and his mood was foul - three hours on the plane hadn’t helped his knee any. The last thing he wanted to do was get in his car, drive to the supermarket to get food, and then cook - just the thought of how long that would take made his stomach grumble angrily.

And besides, he could really use a pick-me-up. Ideally something chocolatey, served with a smile.

So he pulled on his sneakers, not even bothering to change out of his game day suit, and headed downstairs. The cafe wasn’t the closest place that would still be open, but it seemed a lot more appealing (and diet plan-compliant) than the Italian place.

His stomach swooped as he stepped inside, breathed in the smells of bacon, melted cheese and baked goods. It was hunger, he told himself, and not the sight of the blond guy who had served them the last time, coming out of the kitchen with a tray of what looked like blondies. There were a few groups of customers in the cafe, and three people ahead of him meant Jack had plenty of time to study the menu. 

“Hi there!” the guy greeted him from behind the display case as he set out the blondies. “You came back.”

“Euh, yeah.”

“Just you today?”

“Yeah.” Jack sighed. He didn’t want to think about his empty apartment, or why he was all by himself. “Just on my way home.”

“Well, glad to see you again. Chris’ll get your order in a sec-” he pointed toward the register, where a guy with an impressive Sharks tattoo on his forearm was taking orders, “-but I have it on high authority that these peanut butter bars are spectacular.” He winked as he added, “And I didn’t even put in any pickles.”

Jack let out a soft laugh. “That’s good. I’ll be sure to try one. Could use a little pick-me-up.”

He wasn’t sure why he’d added the last bit. He generally kept his thoughts to himself, careful not to show his deeper emotions to strangers. _Or anyone_ , his inner voice hissed, _which is what caused all that mess_. He pushed the thoughts aside. “Maybe one for Gabrielle too, she loves peanut butter.”

The guy flashed him a broad smile. “Sure thing. I’ll wrap them up already.”

The guy bounced off to wrap up the snacks and then disappeared into the kitchen again. It wasn’t until after he’d gotten his order and was back out on the street, heading home, that Jack recognized what he was feeling - disappointed. He’d been hoping to chat longer. It was probably more than just the cheerful colors and upbeat music, but somehow, when he was at the cafe, Jack felt _lighter_.

***

«Papa, can we go to the cafe with the yummy cupcakes again?» Gabrielle whined, tugging on Jack’s hand as they left the swimming school. “I think they have hot chocolate. I’m sooooo cold!”

Gabrielle pouted at him dramatically. It was a bit chilly, but Jack could tell she was definitely putting on a show. She always spoke French when she was trying to get something from him.

«You think this is cold, ma petite?» he reached down to tug on the strings of her hat. «I think we need to go visit Grandmère and Grandpère again, remind you what real cold is, eh?»

“Yessss! Then we can get maple candy again!”

Jack palmed his face. «I’ve created a monster. A sugar monster. I think we need to cut you off. No more sugar for you, mademoiselle!»

«Papaaaaa!» Gabrielle groaned, then her face lit up again. «That’s okay, they have smoothies too! With no pickles!»

«I’m never going to live that down, am I?»

A few moments after, they were settled on one of the couches in the back corner, Gabrielle clutching a hot chocolate (Jack was weak) and one of the books from the take-a-book-leave-a-book rack and Jack with a banana mango smoothie. Gabrielle had dumped a novel set during the American Revolution into his lap and he was studying the back cover when the blond guy showed up carrying two plates with their order.

“Here ya go,” he said as he set the plates down. “Glad y’all decided to come back.”

Jack eyed the mini-tart on Gabby’s plate - he didn’t remember ordering that … 

“I can’t help but feel like you are trying to get her hooked so we keep returning,” he said, careful to say it with enough of a laugh that the guy would know he was (mostly) joking.

“Hush now,” the guy replied, waving it off. “Just tryin’ out a new recipe is all. Your daughter seems like a willing beta tester, right?” Gabrielle had looked up from her book and was nodding her head enthusiastically. “Unlike some other people around here,” the guy added with a pointed look and a half-smile before he turned and sashayed back to the counter.

His accent was thicker than it was when he’d taken their order, as if that had been “Business Guy” (Jack really needed to find out his name) and this was who he really was. Jack couldn’t help but feel that he wanted to hear more of it. 

Jack started going to the cafe more regularly after that. It was usually in the afternoons, especially Wednesdays, with his daughter. Sometimes they’d take their food to go, but more often than not, they stayed and ate there. Gabrielle started bringing books to leave, insistent that she had to give back what she took. Jack was quite enjoying the Revolutionary novel and finally decided one afternoon to take it with him - it might make roadies more bearable. 

And then one morning he decided to stop in for a coffee at the end of his morning run, and the guy had ribbed him about his yellow sneakers and made a _fantastic_ latte and then it had just kind of become part of his routine. 

It wasn’t that he was looking for the blond guy _per se_ , though Jack would be lying if he said he didn’t go to the cafe specifically on the days he knew the guy would be there (which was why he rarely went in the evenings, when it was usually Sharks-tattoo guy and a girl with pink hair).

It was early February when Jack came home from a roadie to find a heart-shaped box of macarons on his kitchen table. Apparently Gabrielle was keeping the Wednesday tradition alive without him.

“I went with Mommy!” she admitted excitedly when he video-called her later. “She had the salad with the chicken, and she said it was really good. And that Eric is really nice!”

“Eric?”

“Yeah, the guy who makes the wraps. You know-” she put her hand on her hip and imitated the blond guy’s accent “-how y’all doing today?”

Jack couldn’t help but laugh at her terrible impression. “Eric,” he repeated.

“He asked what we were gonna get you for Valentine’s Day so I picked out those.”

«That’s very sweet of you, choupinette.»

***

Something was different the next time Jack went to The Itty Bitty Cafe. The blond guy - Eric - was quieter, the warm smile he usually greeted Jack with wasn’t as broad, and his regular running commentary on the week’s special was much more subdued.

Maybe he was having an off day. Maybe something was going on in his personal life. Jack desperately wanted to cheer him up, to get the bubbly Eric bac. But he knew how awful it was to have strangers prying around in one’s personal affairs, and for all that Jack had been here three or four times a week for the past two months, they were essentially still strangers (he hadn’t even worked up the gumption to introduce himself properly), so he wasn’t about to ask.

Instead, he decided maybe it was time to do what he’d been wanting to a while now.

“So, euh, the paintings on the walls, they’re for sale, right?”

Eric nodded, not turning around from where he was preparing their wraps. “They sure are.”

“I’d like to buy one.”

Now Eric finally turned around. “Great, sure. I can set that up for you. Lardo will be so happy. Uh, Larissa. The artist.” Their eyes met briefly, and Jack could have sworn he saw something flicker in them before Eric turned around again quickly. “Let me just finish up here and I’ll get your info.”

“Sure thing.” Jack shifted his weight off his bad knee, turning to look at the painting again while he waited. He’d wanted to buy it since the first time he’d come into the cafe, but something had held him back. Maybe he’d been worried about what Eric would think, or that word would get out, that Jack Zimmermann had bought a painting of a nude man. Jack couldn’t really bring himself to care anymore, though. Besides, it was obviously a figure playing hockey, so he could always just use that as an explanation, and it’s not like it showed anything. Excuse. He wasn’t buying it because he thought it was sexy, after all - it wasn’t. The figure was too crudely portrayed, too abstracted and elongated for that. He liked the colors, the feelings that the painting stirred in him. That was what art was about, wasn’t it? And if he got to support a local artist in the process, all the better.

Eric pushed their plates across the counter toward Jack (he usually brought them to their table if it wasn’t too busy - just another sign that something was off) and pulled out a form. “I need you to fill this out, since we just sell the paintings on the artist’s behalf. And if you want, you can give us your address and I can have the guys deliver it.”

“Oh, uh, that’s okay.” As much as Jack liked and trusted Eric, he never gave out his address, and he didn’t want to have people he didn’t know coming to his apartment. “I think I can manage.”

Eric glanced over at the painting, then at Jack. “You sure?”

Jack glanced at the painting again. Yeah, it was definitely too big to carry by himself. One gust of wind and it’d be gone. “I can have a friend come down and help me.”

He looked down at the form. The first line to be filled out was his name. Well, once he filled this out, any remaining secrecy as to who Jack was would be gone. 

As predicted, Eric’s eyes widened as he looked over the completed form. He didn’t acknowledge it further, which Jack was grateful for, instead just said, “Well, Mr. Zimmermann, it’s nice to finally have a name for the face.”

Jack just chuckled. “Jack, please. I’ll come by in a few days with my friend to pick it up, alright?”

Eric waved his hand. “Yeah, whenever you get a chance. It’ll be here for ya.”

***

“Alright, here we are.” Jack pulled open the door to the cafe and gestured for Tater to step in. “Now, behave.”

“I always “behave,”” Tater said with a wicked grin, making air quotes around the word. 

Jack scrubbed a hand across his face. He was pretty sure he already regretted his decision to ask Tater, of all people, to help him - bringing Tater into a bakery was asking for about as much trouble as bringing Gabrielle into a Lego store. 

“Yeah, sure,” he scoffed. “At least try not to implicate me when you get in trouble with our nutritionist.”

“I never get in trouble.” Tater blinked with feigned innocence before turning to take in the sights of the cafe. “Wow, is nice place. Can see why you like it, Zimmboni.”

Jack scanned the cafe - he didn’t see Eric behind the counter like he usually was. Maybe they’d come at the wrong time? He often wasn’t there in the evenings, Jack had noticed the few times he’d come in later in the day - it was usually the kid with the Sharks tattoo who pretended not to recognize Jack but almost always fumbled Jack’s change - but Eric was almost always there in the late mornings during the week.

“Oh, hi, Jack!” Eric’s voice called from the couches in the back corner, and Jack turned to see Eric headed towards him. “Good to see you again so soon!”

Eric had been standing by a group of people, friends of his by the looks of it. “Oh, here, Lardo come over for a sec.” Eric motioned to the group, and a short girl with an undercut hopped up. “Lardo is the artist who did your painting. Larissa Duan.”

“Hi there!” Larissa held out a hand for Jack to shake, which he did.

“Oh, hi,” Jack greeted, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Love your work. I, uh, I brought my friend. To help me take it home.”

“I am Alexei!” Tater announced, reaching out to shake Larissa and then Bitty’s hand. “This cafe, it is adorable.”

“Why thank you,” Eric said, a hint of a blush reddening his ears. “It’s my pride and joy. I’m Eric. Or Bitty, as everyone calls me.”

Well that explained the name of the cafe.

“Is that Alexei Mashkov?” Jack heard one of Eric’s friends whisper.

Tater, of course, in typical Tater fashion, strode over to say hi.

A round of introductions followed, during which Jack got to meet Eric’s friends Shitty, Ransom and Holster. Hockey nicknames, it turned out, because Bitty (also a hockey nickname) had played on the Samwell team in college.

“My mom went to Samwell,” Jack offered. He carefully didn’t mention that his ex-wife had as well, or that he and Camilla had met at an event there.

The one called “Shitty” let out a laugh. “Yes, they are very proud of their well-known alumni.”

“You should come to Falconers game some time,” Tater announced, clapping Ransom on the shoulders. Poor kid looked like he was about to pass out.

“That would be swawesome,” Ransom croaked.

“I can get some tickets set aside,” Jack offered when he saw how Eric beamed at the suggestion. “I’ll let you know when. Next few games are away games.”

“That would be so nice, Jack,” Eric replied. His hand brushed Jack’s arm as he reached out and gave it a light squeeze. Jack’s eyes snapped up and their gazes met, just for a second, before Eric pulled his hand away and fled behind the counter. “Do you guys want pie?”

“Yes! I would like pie!” Tater called, echoed by the entire Samwell group.

“Nate is going to kill me,” Jack muttered with a sigh, but he certainly didn’t say no when Eric offered him a plate.

Three hours later, Jack and Tater left the cafe with the painting tucked under their arms and a stack of pie boxes, tied together with red and white string. “For the team,” Eric had instructed as he’d handed them over, eyeing Tater warningly.

“I like it,” Tater declared. “Is nice place. Is nice guy, little Bitty.” He winked at Jack suggestively, but Jack ignored him. Which Tater must have taken as a sign that he should press the matter. “You should ask for his number, take him out.”

“Tater, that’s not- I can’t- He isn’t-”

“It is, you can, and he _is_ ,” Tater countered, shooting Jack one of his rare serious looks. “I see way he looks at you. He wants to touch the Zimmboni butt. I mean, who doesn’t, right? But for real. He likes you, and I can see it in your eyes, Jack. You smile like when you score a hat trick. In playoffs. You like him too.”

Jack sucked in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. They’d reached his building and set the painting down while Jack fished in his pocket for his keys. Maybe Tater did have a point. Maybe he should ask Eric out? But then again, what was the point? Things were just going to get messy - Jack was a hard person to be with, he’d learned. Even when he _wasn’t_ off on a roadie, there were times when he just “wasn’t there” (his ex-wife’s words). And the constant attention from the press and the fans - it wasn’t fair to put that on another person.

A heavy hand settled on his shoulder. “Jack. I know is still tough, the thing with Camilla, but it’s okay to be happy again. You are allowed.”

Tater grinned at him hopefully. They’d been rookies together, both fresh from the draft and eager to make a name for themselves beyond the shadow of their famous parents. They had a lot in common, Tater and Jack, and they’d bonded quickly. Tater was the only one on the team Jack had ever told he was bi - the only one he’d been close enough to to confide in back when he’d been dating (not that he’d done too much of that anyway), and after he’d met and married Camilla, it just seemed … superfluous. 

Jack had often wondered if maybe he should have gone a similar route as Tater and joined one of the European leagues, where people didn’t automatically think “Bad Bob” when they heard the name Zimmermann. Maybe things might have been easier.

But if he hadn’t gone to Providence, he probably would never have met Camilla, and he wouldn’t have Gabrielle. 

Wouldn’t have gotten divorced.

Well, moot point now, eh?

Jack straightened. He was going to have to tell Tater at some point, might as well do it now. “I’m retiring, Tater. End of the season. It’s not official or anything yet, but … George and the coaches are working out the details. My knee’s not gonna hold forever, and I’d like to get out while I can still _walk_ off the ice.”

“дерьмо, Jack. I am sorry to hear. Guess this mean we have to make playoffs, huh? One last time? For oldtimer’s sake?”

Jack heard himself chuckle. “Yeah, for oldtimer’s sake.”

***

The next home game was against the Bruins, and there was no way Jack was going to be able to scrounge up six comped tickets for that kind of a rivalry game. Which meant when Eric and his gang of friends did come see Jack play a week and a half later, it was against the Las Vegas Aces. And the Falconers’ shot at the playoffs was riding on that game’s outcome. Naturally.

Jack was not freaking out. 

Jack Zimmermann was not. freaking. out.

Except that he totally was.

He’d laced and relaced his skates about five times, checking the tension, deciding it was too much, rechecking - too little.

«Everything okay, Jack?» A hand settled on his shoulder, and Jack looked up to see Lapointe smiling down at him. The left winger had joined Jack’s line two seasons back and was turning out to be a formidable player. And a good friend. With Guy, Marty and Thirdy retired, Jack needed all the friends on his team that he could get.

«Ouias, it’s fine.» Jack shrugged and pushed himself to his feet. «Never gets easier, eh?» He patted Lapointe’s shoulder as he hobbled past on his skates.

Thirteen years in the League, more than seventy games against the Aces, including a number of playoff rounds, and Jack still got jittery at the prospect of facing off against Kent Parson.

«Yeah, but a Cup sure helps!» he heard Lapointe call after him.

Jack smiled as he recalled when they’d won the Cup last year - the look on Kent’s face across the ice, dejected and defeated, as Jack had stood, surrounded by his cheering teammates, and hoisted the Cup over his head.

Yeah, it helps.

***

Kent was smiling up at Jack as they leaned down over the face-off spot. It was that toothy, shark-like grin of his, the one that said “Glad to see you, buddy. Can’t wait to kick your ass.”

Jack lost the face-off.

It wasn’t until they skated out again at the start of the second period, trailing the Aces 1-2, that Jack looked out into the crowd. And there they were, up in the 400 level, decked out in Falconers gear and waving a Samwell banner - Eric right in the middle of them, bouncing as he cheered. Jack couldn’t help but smile, and on a whim, he turned to face them, skating backwards for a few steps as he raised his stick towards them.

It was probably physically impossible, but Jack could have sworn he could pick out Eric’s voice from the rest of the crowd when his shot found the back of the net just a few minutes later.

He raised his stick to the 400 level again as he skated his celly lap, breathed a sigh of relief at having evened out the score.

Jack took a stick to the shins late in the period. It wouldn’t have been a problem, had he not landed on his bad knee, but he skated through the pain. The Aces’ d-man who had sticked him ended up in the sin bin for it, at least, and Lapointe used the power play to pull the Falconers ahead.

Kent did not look happy.

The third period was a blur - Jack had tried to push down the throbbing in his knee until he missed an easy pass from Tater and Coach waved him off the ice. The crowd’s disappointed groan didn’t help his mood as he skated toward the bench. He’d always hated watching from the sidelines. It was pure frustration, watching his teammates fight hard and not being able to do his part.

There were only six minutes left in the game when Troy scooped up a pass by Poots meant for Lapointe and passed it off to Kent, who sunk it into the net with an angry slapshot. Jack gulped down some Gatorade and signaled to Coach Stevens - he needed to get back out there.

The ice was his home, where the world made sense. 

He was off as soon as Bumbles was back at the box. Tater stole the puck from one of the Aces wingers and passed it to Lapointe, who passed again. Jack took the puck, looped tight behind the Aces net, and tapped it in.

“Zimmboni find good luck charm, eh?” Tater shouted in Jack’s ear as he reeled him in for a hug.

Jack glanced up to the stands, where the Samwell gang was jumping up and down like berserk rabbits. 

“Looks like it.” He raised his stick to salute them.

***

“Come on in, Jack, I’ll get us a sandwich or something.” Eric hovered on the edge of the curb, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder to the cafe behind him. He was chewing his bottom lip hesitantly.

Jack grinned, overcome with a sudden desire to kiss him. Instead, he just nodded. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

Jack had invited the Samwell group down to the locker room after the game, where his team had practically adopted them as honorary members, and soon thereafter they’d all headed out to Providence’s bar district to celebrate the win. It was almost frightful how well the two groups - Falconers and former Wellies - had merged. Tater, in particular, had really bonded with Ransom and Holster. Maybe it was a defenseman thing … 

It had been well after midnight when Jack had caught Eric yawning.

“Long day?” Jack had asked, nudging Eric with his shoulder.

“Always. Baker’s hours,” he’d replied with a shrug.

It had only made sense for them to share a cab home. Bitty lived above the cafe, Jack lived just down the street. It would be silly not to.

It wasn’t until they were settled on the back seat of the cab, mere inches apart, that Jack realized his heart was hammering in his chest and he suddenly had no idea what to say. 

Thankfully, Eric broke the silence. “Boy, what a night. I’m not sure which is more in love with Tater - Ransom or Holster. Well, at least they don’t worry about the other getting jealous.”

Jack chuckled. “I bet Tater is loving it. He’s like a big Golden Retriever - the more attention, the better. Scratch behind his ears and you’ve got a friend for life.”

Eric’s nose wrinkled as he giggled. It was adorable.

“It was real nice of him to buy us all a round of drinks. And Fitzgerald. I haven’t had Irish car bombs since _college_.”

“It’s kind of a tradition. When Poots gets sent to the sin bin during a game, he has to buy a round. Sometimes I wonder if he maybe does it on purpose.”

“Your team sound like a great bunch,” Eric said, his eyes glittering with laughter.

“They really are,” Jack replied. What he didn’t say was how much he was going to miss them when he retired. How scared he was of the inevitable loneliness, purposeless of retirement. There was a time in his life when he’d looked forward to being home all the time, but now his reality was shared custody and three days a week, every other weekend. What on _earth_ was he supposed to do with the rest of his time?

He’d gone quiet again, Jack realized, and his silence might be making Eric uncomfortable. Shoot.

“Geez, I’m starving,” he said in an effort to fill the void. He wasn’t actually all that hungry - it was the first thing that popped in his head.

“Well lucky for you,” Eric leaned closer and raised his eyebrow tantalizingly. Was he flirting? “I happen to have access to a whole cafe full of delicious delicacies.”

“Oh yeah?” Jack replied, doing his best to flirt back (and probably failing miserably), “you mean that place up on Richmond? I hear they put pickles in everything.”

Eric stared at Jack for a moment, his lips pursed like he was holding himself back. “The frat boy in me is just _yearning_ to make a ‘that’s what she said’ joke.”

“You have a frat boy _inside you_? Now?” Jack deadpanned.

Eric blinked at him before bursting out in laughter. “Oh my gosh, Jack. You’re going to be the death of me.”

The cab pulled up in front of Eric’s cafe and they climbed out. Jack paid the driver, waving off Eric’s attempts to give him half the cost. 

“I would have had to pay for the ride if you hadn’t come along,” Jack explained with a shrug. “You were very welcome company.”

A moment passed, something hovering between them as they stood on the sidewalk in the February cold of New England, a light dusting of snow swirling around them. If they were in one of those romantic movies Camilla loved so much, this would be the moment where one of them would invite the other up for coffee. Pity things never worked out like they do in Hollywood.

“Come on in, Jack, I’ll get us a sandwich or something.”

***

Jack leaned against the counter as Eric headed to the walk-in fridge to get ingredients for sandwiches. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, unsure what to do with himself. His body was thrumming with an inexplicable energy. He’d never been behind the counter before - it felt like he was breaking the rules or something.

Eric returned with a plate full of food and chattered as he set about putting together sandwiches. Something about having grilled cheese as a comfort food as a kid and never quite growing out of it, even if the sandwiches of his childhood hadn’t exactly been made with Havarti.

Jack huffed out a quiet laugh. He couldn’t imagine Gabrielle eating that either.

“Oh my gosh,” Jack caught himself groaning as he took his first bite of the sandwich Eric presented him with. It was heaven in bread. “Did you put _chicken salad_ in this?”

Eric shrugged with a smirk. “I regret nothing.”

“As well you shouldn’t. This is incredible. Just, uh, don’t tell the team nutritionist. Not supposed to eat carbs after 4 PM.”

Eric barked out a laugh. “Good lord, how do you _live_?”

“Carefully,” Jack replied before shoving the last bite of sandwich into his mouth. Maybe a little too carefully, he determined. He swallowed the food, and his inner fears. “Hey, I feel like I should repay the favor or something. Maybe I can make you dinner sometime? Or take you out somewhere? That’s probably a safer bet - I’m not much of a cook.”

Bitty set his sandwich, his easy smile suddenly gone, and glowered at Jack. “Jack, I’m not that kinda boy.” 

That was … unexpected. Jack knew from personal experience that “gaydar” wasn’t exactly reliable all the time, but there was so much about Eric that made it seem pretty evident, so it was hard to believe he could not be.

“Oh. Sorry. I thought - I guess I just assumed…” He gestured around the cafe, at the little rainbow flag stuck into the napkin holder, the Human Rights Campaign sticker on the window.

“Oh, because you’re rich and famous and gorgeous you just thought I’d swoon and say yes, please, take me as your little piece on the side? Your secret gay mistress?” 

“Uh, wait, I think we are both assuming different things.” 

“I’ve met your wife, Jack. She’s been in here, with your daughter, who is, like, my BFF. I couldn’t do that to them.” 

“Eric. Bitty. Bittle.” Jack reached out to touch Eric’s arm, hoping the contact might pull Eric out of his rant.

Eric leveled his gaze at Jack. There was anger in his eyes, and his voice. “Jack, I’m not some little homewrecker.”

Jack pulled back his hand as if he’d been burned. “I’d never ask that of you, Eric. _Merde_.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “Camilla and I are divorced, Eric. She left me. About a year ago. For another man.” He looked up to catch Eric’s surprised gaze, and sighed. “Well, probably for other reasons, but that really clinched it.”

“Oh,” Eric let out quietly. “I didn’t know. I just thought - I’m sorry.”

Jack picked at a bit of tape on the counter. He didn’t dare look up at Eric. “I’m not very easy to be with, apparently. I travel all the time, I basically live for hockey - hockey robot, they call me. And when I am home, I spend all my time with my daughter. I don’t share my thoughts, I live in my head, I leave my running shoes in places they shouldn’t be left. I’m stuck in my routines and I don’t let others in.” 

Those had been his wife’s words, but they rang true. He couldn’t put this on Eric, or anyone. He shouldn’t be so selfish. He pushed himself off the counter and reached for his coat. “You know what, this was probably a bad idea. Let’s just - I should probably just go. Thanks for the sandwich.”

Jack was almost at the door when a hand on his arm pulled him back. “Jack, wait.”

“You deserve better than me, Bitty.”

“Well I think what I deserve it to be allowed to make up my own mind.” 

Jack looked up to see Eric glaring at him with a look that screams “no shit taken.” His arms are folded across his chest and he somehow looks a lot taller than he actually is.

“Jack Zimmermann. If you had any idea how many batches of brownies and pies and turnovers and scones these past few months were the result of me trying to bake away my turmoil over having feelings for someone who I thought to be very much straight and married …”

Jack felt his heart rate pick up, that same feeling of anticipation he always got just before walking out onto the ice before a game. 

“I’d sworn to myself, back in college, after a very painful lesson, I told myself I wouldn’t fall for a straight guy again. I’m not very good at following my own rules, apparently.”

“You … have feelings for me?”

Eric barked out a laugh. “Bless your heart, Jack Zimmermann.” Eric reached out to take Jack’s hand in his, his thumb rubbing over the back of Jack’s hand. The touch sent a rush through Jack, settling somewhere at the base of his spine. “Yes, I have feelings for you. I tried not to let myself feel them, because I thought … But you’re _not_ married, and I’m guessing not entirely straight, if you’re asking, so yes. I would love to have dinner with you, if the offer still stands.”

Jack gave Eric’s hand a squeeze. “The offer still stands.”

***

Jack went home that night (morning?) with what was probably a ridiculously dopey smile on his face, his cheek warm where Eric had kissed him goodnight, and a lightness in his heart.

He was going on a date with Eric Bittle.

He made it all the way back to his apartment before the panic set in.

He hadn’t been on a date in _years_. He hadn’t been on a first date since that awkward, bumbling evening with Camilla almost ten years ago.

What if they were spotted? What if a fan recognized Jack and posted a picture of them looking … date-y? What if the media picked it up and-

Jack stopped, took a deep breath, looked at his reflection in his hallway mirror. _Huh, fancy that._

He actually didn’t really care if anyone found out he was bi.

He’s had a good run in the NHL. He’s got three Cup wins to his name, a cabinet full of awards and medals. A few seasons and a Cup win less than his father, but there’s really nothing he can do about that. Can’t argue with biology, after all.

And wouldn’t that be one hell of a press release, eh? _Zimmermann announces retirement, divorce, bisexuality_

Okay, maybe best to do one at a time.

***

They went to the little Italian place on their street. It wasn’t exactly a destination outing, but Eric had only been there once and Jack knew they had good calamari, and it was familiar enough that they didn’t feel like they had to act “fancy” or be anyone other than themselves (which was Jack’s second-biggest concern that evening) and it was cozy enough that they could enjoy their meal without anyone recognizing Jack (which was his biggest concern).

Eric was even more adorable when he wasn’t trying to hide his feelings, it turned out. And he was _funny_ and caring and he laughed at Jack’s stupid jokes and his eyes shone as he chirped Jack about his disdain for anything pickled and Jack was maybe, kind of, a little bit smitten.

He was impressed, that’s it, he told himself - for someone to have built a business like Eric’s cafe, which was new but already thriving, at only twenty-six (Jack was a bit relieved to learn that Eric was, in fact, older than he looked).

He regaled Jack with stories from his “wayward youth” with the Samwell hockey team and as a figure skater before that, and Jack shared his own stories from far too many nights of sharing a room with Tater and Gabrielle’s toddler shenanigans.

“She’s such a great kid,” Eric stated, his eyes shining in the light of the candle between them.

“Yeah,” Jack agreed, lifting his wine glass to take a sip. “She’s really taken a shine to you.”

“Oh hush you, Jack Zimmermann.” Eric blushed and took a sip of his own wine in a feeble attempt to hide behind the glass. 

“It’s true, though. She won’t let me walk past your cafe anymore without going in.”

Eric steepled his fingers, drumming his finger tips together. “Yessss,” he hissed, putting on what was probably supposed to be an imitation of that guy from the Simpsons, “my evil plan is coming to fruition. My minion has been trained well.”

Jack raised his hand to hide his giggling. “Geez, Bittle, you would be the worst supervillain in all of history.”

Eric laughed, his face softening again. “I _know_. I am so bad at being mean!” He smirked at Jack’s renewed giggling - it was hard to image an evil Eric. “I’m serious! Back at Samwell we did this hazing thing for the taddies - the new team members - where we’d make them kneel naked on the ice and I always felt so _bad_ for them so I kept trying to give them sweaters! And pie.” He glared semi-menacingly when Jack just laughed harder at that. “Apparently that defeats the purpose of hazing, according to my heartless teammates.”

“I am pretty sure I know a team full of guys who would gladly go through that if it meant pie.” 

Eric smirked, leaning back in his chair as he folded his arms across his chest. “Well hey, I will _happily_ bake all the pies in the world if it’ll make the Providence Falconers line up naked for me.”

“Oh _mon dieu_ ,” Jack said, palming his face as he realized what he’d just said. “The sad part is, a number of them probably _would actually do it_.”

Eric leaned forward again and reached across the table to take Jack’s hand in his. Jack’s eyes snapped up to meet Eric’s - his gaze was warm, but the laughter was gone from it, replaced with something else. 

“There’s only one I’m interested in.”

Jack felt a flush of heat roll through him. His eyes darted around the restaurant - okay, no one was watching them, no one in earshot. He rubbed his thumb over the back of Eric’s hand.

“What do you say we get out of here, eh?”

Eric’s eyes were dark, a hint of a smile on his lips. “What, no tiramisu?”

Jack huffed out a laugh. “I don’t know how you stay so fit, surrounded by so many desserts all the time … You want tiramisu? We can stay for tiramisu if you want.”

“Jack Zimmermann, you give up far too easily,” Eric chided. “This is the part where you sweep me off my feet and convince me of all the things that lie ahead that are better than tiramisu.”

“That sounds an awful lot like coercion.” Jack caught Eric’s gaze and held it for a moment before he finally cracked, Eric breaking out in laughter just a second later.

They were still laughing, though somewhat more quietly, as Jack pulled out his wallet, dropped more than enough cash to cover their bill on the table, and extended a hand to Eric as he stood. “Come on, Bittle, let’s get out of here. You won’t regret passing up on the tiramisu.”

There was more confidence in his tone than he actually felt, but Eric didn’t need to know that. It had been _a while_ , after all … 

But then Eric took his hand, protesting quietly at Jack paying as he followed Jack out of the restaurant. Eric’s hand was warm, despite how he shivered once they were outside, and Jack’s heart was racing. 

“I said I wanted to take you out for dinner, Bittle. That means you have to let me pay.”

Eric pouted, but then Jack leaned forward to brush their lips together in a soft kiss, and when he pulled away again, Eric was smiling.

“Alright, fine,” Eric conceded. “But dessert is on me.”

“If that’s what you’re into.” Jack winked before turning to cross the street. “Come on, Bittle,” he called back, “I’m told it’s cold out here.”

He was pretty sure he heard Eric muttering something about cold-resistant Canadians as he made his way over, latching onto Jack’s elbow and huddling in, presumably for warmth, while Jack unlocked the door.

“It’s March! How do you manage when it’s actually cold?”

Eric breathed a happy sigh as they stepped inside and followed Jack’s gesture toward the elevator. Jack usually took the stairs, but his knee was not happy that day.

“I live in the same building I work in! I only have to go outside for deliveries and things like that, and even that I can usually make one of my employees do for me.” 

The elevator dinged as the doors slid open, and they stepped inside.

As soon as the doors shut again, Eric reached out for Jack’s hand and tugged him closer, pulling Jack against him where he leaned against the wall. Jack let himself be pulled in, stopping when their faces were just centimeters apart.

“Hi,” Eric breathed, looking up at Jack through his lashes in the most irresistible way.

Jack’s heart was pounding. He was certain Eric could feel it, their chests pressed up against each other like they were.

“Hi,” he replied, just before dipping down to kiss Eric. Eric let out a sound that was almost definitely a squeak, and then he was kissing Jack back, his hands looping around the back of Jack’s neck, running through his hair, and it was _intoxicating_. 

_DING!_ The elevator announced their arrival on Jack’s floor.

“I suddenly find myself wishing I lived on the thirty-seventh floor,” Jack murmured into the crook of Eric’s neck before disentangling himself. Eric chuckled in agreement, a warm sound that Jack couldn’t help but smile at.

“There aren’t even any buildings that tall in Providence, Jack,” Eric pointed out, shoving Jack lightly so they could leave the elevator.

Jack unlocked the door to his apartment, waited for Eric to enter before following him inside, and carefully hung his key on the rack before scooping Eric up in another kiss.

“God, I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he admitted when they pulled apart again.

“Like since the elevator?” Eric chirped as he fought with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Here, let me …” Jack reached out to help Eric, letting his fingers linger on Eric’s hand. “No, like since the first time I went to your cafe.”

“Oh hush, you big sap.” 

“No, I’m serious.” Jack pulled Eric close again, allowing his fingers to roam over Eric’s back. Eric seemed to melt into the touch. It was nice. “Why do you think I kept coming back for all those not-meal-plan-compliant mini-tarts?” 

“Jack Zimmermann, you sly dog.” Eric pulled away to look up at Jack. “You came in because of me?”

“Yeah,” Jack replied softly, before adding, “Well and also because you created an addict and Gabrielle kept insisting.”

That earned him a laugh. “Mission accomplished,” Eric preened.

***

Jack woke up the next morning with Eric curled around him, and the morning after that, and the morning after that, and slowly the tightness he’d felt in his heart for the past year began to ease until six months had gone by and he’d almost forgotten it.

He didn’t bother wiping away the tear that rolled down his cheek as he watched his jersey being hoisted up into the rafters, or any of the tears that followed. His father’s hand was on his shoulder, a reassuring weight, with his daughter holding his hand on his other side. 

He managed to laugh through the tears when Jumpin’ Jack Flash came on over the arena sound system - the song they’d played for the last thirteen seasons whenever he’d scored a goal. He turned, looking around the arena one more time. His team was lined up out on center ice, Tater smack-dab in the middle. The fans were all on their feet. They’re all clapping for him. 

Yeah, he’d had a good run. They hadn’t managed a Cup win his last season, but they’d put in a good run and they’d gone down fighting. Can’t win ‘em all, as they say. That’s just how things are in hockey.

Now it’s time for something new, he thought as his eyes settled on Eric, standing just behind him. He stretched out his hand for Eric to take, which he did, and together they walked off the ice, Gabrielle right beside them.


End file.
